XIII

Here is a rough

Rude sketch of my friend,

Faint-coloured enough

And unworthily penned.

Fearlessly fair

And triumphant he stands,

And holds unaware

Friends’ hearts in his hands;

Stalwart and straight

As an oak that should bring

Forth gallant and great

Fresh roses in spring.

On the paths of his pleasure

All graces that wait

What metre shall measure

What rhyme shall relate

Each action, each motion,

Each feature, each limb,

Demands a devotion

In honour of him:

Head that the hand

Of a god might have blest,

Laid lustrous and bland

On the curve of its crest:

Mouth sweeter than cherries,

Keen eyes as of Mars,

Browner than berries

And brighter than stars.

Nor colour nor wordy

Weak song can declare

The stature how sturdy,

How stalwart his air.

As a king in his bright

Presence-chamber may be,

So seems he in height —

Twice higher than your knee.

As a warrior sedate

With reserve of his power,

So seems he in state —

As tall as a flower:

As a rose overtowering

The ranks of the rest

That beneath it lie cowering,

Less bright than their best.

And his hands are as sunny

As ruddy ripe corn

Or the browner-hued honey

From heather-bells borne.

When summer sits proudest,

Fulfilled with its mirth,

And rapture is loudest

In air and on earth,

The suns of all hours

That have ripened the roots

Bring forth not such flowers

And beget not such fruits.

And well though I know it,

As fain would I write,

Child, never a poet

Could praise you aright.

I bless you? the blessing

Were less than a jest

Too poor for expressing;

I come to be blest,

With humble and dutiful

Heart, from above:

Bless me, O my beautiful

Innocent love!

This rhyme in your praise

With a smile was begun;

But the goal of his ways

Is uncovered to none,

Nor pervious till after

The limit impend;

It is not in laughter

These rhymes of you end.